


I'm Not Broken

by study_in_orchid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/study_in_orchid/pseuds/study_in_orchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: High school genius, Sherlock Holmes, tries to commit suicide and ends up in a mental ward. No doctor can break through his facade of calm until a new doctor arrives, John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Let's start from the beginning, Sherlock." Another doctor sat before me. They had stopped trying to make me comfortable to talk. We were sitting in a plain white room with a small table and two chairs. Anderson, the doctor - a rodent faced man whose entire being put me off already - sighed. Before he had fully walked into the room, I could read everything about him.  
"Dr. Anderson, does your wife know you aren't happy in your marriage?" The surprise on his face along with another nervous twirl of his wedding ring proved me right so far. "I'm sure she will be very pleased to know of your affair with Doctor Donovan. And don't call me by my first name like you know me as more than a case file."  
"How did you.... Who...?" he sputtered trying to find words that we both knew wouldn't come. I knew he wouldn't last. Like the doctors before him - Dimmock, Donovan, and Lestrade - he would give up after I wouldn't cooperate. I was interested in their mental states. Their nervous ticks, habits, body. I could read them like books and Anderson was the easiest by far. Then something changed in his demeanor, his voice turned to a low growl, "Holmes, there is a padded room and a straight jacket waiting for you. Open up so we can move forward or die here." Anderson ended with a snarl and walked out of the room.   
I was alone, for the remainder of my hour session, I would be alone in this white room staring at walls. I glanced down at the thick bandages covering my wrists. Stitches itched below the gauze. I had been so close to ending it all. Now I was stuck here.


	2. A New Face

After my "session" with Dr. Anderson was done, I walked down the lonely hallway to the cell they called a room. There weren't many people here, and I avoided those who did live in the ward. Their stories were depressing and I got enough from them during group therapy to try making friends. Therapy was required, one-on-one and group. I had only been here two weeks and almost every physician had interviewed me and determined I was a lost cause. Yet I was forced to group therapy. Between my sessions and group I had two hours to myself. My family hadn't said a word since they found me bleeding out in the bathroom except for a snide "For a genius you are incredibly stupid" from my brother. I sighed and flopped onto my thin mattress, my face buried in a scratchy blanket. My wrists itched and I was tired of being alone. Since being here, my thoughts of suicide had only increased. In this hospital, I was more alone, more depressed, and more scared.  
A soft knock woke me before I even knew I was asleep. "Sherlock? Are you okay?" Director Lestrade. I rose slowly and turned to the grey-haired doctor. He could read the look on my face and knew I wasn't alright. He sighed, "Can I come in?"  
I nodded and moved aside to let him sit on my bed. "Sherlock, you aren't... You are the hardest case I have ever met. And I can't crack you." He made a point to look me directly in my stormy eyes. "You aren't my division anymore." Confusion colored my face. "I've been transferred to another ward. A new doctor is taking over you and this whole hospital."   
"Oh," I couldn't think of anything else to say. Which was odd for me.  
"I've heard he is great, but I wanted to tell you in person."   
"Director, you have been the only person I could talk to here." I choked down emotion, "What if he doesn't like me? What if he determines I'm lost and I get locked away forever? I can't live like this anymore!" The doctor wrapped his arm around my shoulders and I rested my head on his chest.  
Lestrade smiled at me, "Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, he will love you."


	3. Study in Sentiment

"I was the 13 the first time I tried to commit suicide," A boy with burn marks covering his arms began. Judging by the twitch in his right eye, he was lying. Severity of scarring made me believe he was much younger. 10 years old by my deduction. After his father had killed himself. His head tilted to the side when he wasn't focusing, failed attempt at hanging. A messy knot that left him disfigured. But the boy droned on and on and I zoned out. The new doctor hadn't arrived, but we knew what was expected of us to group therapy/ Director Lestrade's words were heavy on my mind. Greg was the first person I trusted here at Scotland Yard Mental Facility, the first person who I let call me Sherlock, and the closest person I had come to opening up to. My mind was so preoccupied that I barely noticed the change in the room as the new Director walked in.  
He seemed flustered. Blond hair in a disheveled array, blue eyes with dark circles underneath indicative of too many sleepless nights, but his smile was so genuine that it brightened his entire being. "These corridors are bloody impossible, sorry I am late." He grabbed a chair and with military polish, he joined the circle. The doctor could not have been much older than I was and yet he exuded more experience than I would likely ever. "I am the newest director of your facility. My name is John Hamish Watson." Dr. Watson made a point to make eye contact with everyone, I glanced away, feigning interest elsewhere before he reached me. Clearing his throat, he continued, "I want to get to know all of you and let you get to know me. So today's session will be about that. No sad stories, I'll get that in therapy." The doctor laughed and a few others nervously joined in, "I want your names, something that makes you different, and something that you love to do." He looked around and when nobody spoke for a few moments, John sighed. "I joined the Army when I was younger than all of you, and strangely, I love to do this. Get to know people on a personal level and help them. You next," he pointed at me.  
One of the girls spoke up, "Sir, good luck. He comes to therapy, but doesn't talk."   
Another girl giggled, "He is a freak among the 'despondent and broken'." She quoted Dr. Donovan from her first session.  
I frowned and looked away. They were right, I didn't speak, I didn't draw attention to myself and in doing so I became infamous. John Watson stared in my direction, "Young man, tell me about you." He seemed to ignore the girls entirely.  
Sighing, I realized he wouldn't give up, "My name is Sherlock Holmes, I am not special, and..." I stopped myself, but Dr. Watson made a gesture of wanting me to continue. Something in his gaze made me think I wouldn't be judged by him. "I play violin."  
"Violin, eh?" He leaned back, jotted something in a notebook and continued to the rest of the circle. The sincerity in his eyes stopped me cold. I wasn't one to open up, but I knew he wouldn't let me stay quiet.


	4. Sign of the War

Dr. Watson and I began sessions the next day. The man was interesting to watch, he had a slight limp that he hid very well, but stress made it worse. When he walked in ten minutes late for our meeting, it was bad. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he said as he sat hastily. "These halls are hopeless."  
I smirked, raising my eyebrows to show that I thought he was hopeless, "They do take a while to get used to," I explained. "So, how does counseling work for you?"  
His blue eyes brightened as he grinned at me, and my heart skipped. Odd, I thought as I tried to catch my breath again. "You tell me what you want when you want, it's simple." Sighing, I looked anywhere but into Dr. Watson's eyes. Finally I settled on the white slippers the hospital had given me. "Mr. Holmes, do you normally struggle with maintaining eye contact?" A small black notebook was sprawled across his lap and the new doctor seemed to be searching for a pen. I stood and pulled the blue pen out from hiding behind his ear.   
Avoiding his question, I walked to the window overlooking the green courtyard. Flowers had begun to bloom in the beds, red and yellow bright against stone. The doctor's gaze was heavy on my back, but he didn't press me any farther. "I thought as much." He said simply after a few minutes.   
"It's spring, Doctor," I replied devoid of emotion. "Do you know how long I've been here?"  
There was a ruffling of paper before he responded, "Two years, three months."  
"And eighteen days. I haven't felt a real spring in two years, the other kids would be playing football or rugby, enjoying a day on the streets or the parks," I sighed again. "I am here." John Watson stood and joined me at the window. "Afghanistan or Iraq, Doctor Watson?"  
The doctor stiffened, "How did you know?"  
"You have a limp, I believe it is from a traumatic experience. You carry yourself like a military man, but you are too young to have retired. Discharge then. Your haircut shows you hold on to a proud past, so you didn't leave willingly. I take that to say you were injured in war, Afghanistan or Iraq?"  
A moment of silence stilled the air and just as I was about to apologize for speaking my deductions, Dr. Watson laughed, "They said you were a genius, fantastic. It was Iraq." I turned to face him and he placed his hand on my shoulder, "By the time we are through, you may know me better than I do. Remember though, you are the patient. Same time tomorrow, Mr. Holmes?"  
"Do I have a choice?" I muttered and the doctor laughed. He began to pack his things up and as he left I spoke up, "I never met a psychiatrist with a psychosomatic limp."


	5. Scandal In Brilliance

For a few hours after Dr. Watson left, I continued to stare at the beautiful England day outside. The doctor made me open up enough to tell him I missed the outside world. Stuffy halls, white walls, the smell of antiseptic. It was all suffocating after two years. A slight tremor started in my hands as emotion swelled up in me. Emotions that I had tried to suppress. Emotion was pointless. Somewhere, beyond the walls of this hospital, Molly would be drawing, alone but content. I could always count on her. Jim and Irene would be talking, debating. Jim would get angry and scream, back when I was around he'd hit me or threaten to make me into shoes. Whatever that meant. Irene would bat her eyelashes and any male with a functioning libido would fall. Mycroft, my brother, would be playing with his electronics, hacking into news feeds or video cameras. He was brilliant enough to run all of Britain someday. Mrs. Hudson, the neighborhood mother would be cooking, keeping a careful eye for the kids of Baker Street. They all cared so much. And I was here. Miles away, in white hospital garb, gauze wrapped to my elbows with itchy stitches below. I knew they didn't miss me. My last visitor came for Christmas. I hadn't received as much as a letter on my birthday, to them, to everyone else, I was already dead. To them, I had succeeded.

When I first arrived here, Dr. Lestrade gave me an unassuming black notebook. A notebook that haunted many patients, in which we – they – were expected to write their thoughts. To some, that was the greatest torture – exploring their own heads long enough to decode a message to form into words. After two years, Dr. Watson had said something that stirred my broken soul to voyage to torment myself. The pencil felt foreign in my bandaged hand, the chair hard beneath me, and the notebook spine cracked willingly as I opened up the pages for the first time.

_Suicide was always an option. I always thought I was strong enough to fight it.'_ I paused, my hand shaking. The truth of my words was heavy on my young heart. I knew this was the first time I was truly trying to breakthrough. _After so many years, I got tired of fighting. Suddenly, death seemed a viable out and I wanted escape badly. I was cowardly and selfish and stupid, but after thinking of everyone else – solving their problems – for so long, I wanted to be the most important person in my mind. Others issues were easy, my own were more difficult. The scars I had put on my own arms to feel anything triggered memories of blades and blood. Just a modicum deeper, just a bit wider and that would be it. If only, if only I could, spare myself more pain and free myself from numbness. So I did._

 I felt John Watson in my doorway before he spoke. “Mr. Holmes, you have a visitor.”


	6. The Empty Heart

Confusion furrowed my brow, a visitor? Who would want to see me? I dropped the pencil onto the page and stood slowly. Dr. Watson spoke after a moment, "Two years and you never touched that notebook. Why now?"   
"I don't know." I answered honestly.  
"How hard is it for you to say you don't know?"  
I stuttered, "I - I don't know." He smiled at me and looked me over once more. "Who is visiting me?"  
"A girl from your neighborhood and your brother."  
Mycroft? I was taken aback. Why now?  
\--------_  
Mycroft Holmes was an imposing young man, for as long as I could remember, he could command a room, take control, instill fear. My brother was able to act so much older and yet I had always been a weakness for him. It was obvious, as much as he portrayed apathy. He stood strong in the meeting room of the hospital. Molly Hooper looking small beside him. Her brown hair was tied in a loose ponytail at the base of her neck. I trusted Molly more than anyone I had ever met. She was the closest thing I had to a friend. She was smart beyond her years, even though she let her heart rule her more than her mind. She noticed me first, "Sherlock!"


End file.
